Drunk Poetry Circle

Anyone can write poetry! Sometimes you just need a glass of wine (or a bottle)(or a box). We're a writing group. We're a support circle. We're always composing. We're BYOB. Send us your drunk poetry to [email protected], and subscribe to our weekly newsletter of the week's best verses. Cheers to all of us.

[drunkpoetrycircle]

He's a skinny white boy. Balding and bad teeth - snaggled and stained yellow from too much coffee. I'm a girl with too much weight around the middle. I have cellulite and my breasts are heavy and sag. He smokes and I hate it. I have a temper and he hates it. But he's kind to me and makes me laugh. Makes me come. Makes me feel beautiful. Makes me want to find the sweetness I used to have. If I can climb through my baggage, If he can do the same, we might get something real out of this.

- Anonymous

[drunkpoetrycircle]

My stomach is tied up in coulds, woulds, shoulds -- I mean nots. Something's moving backwards somewhere, or maybe it just looks like it. Or maybe it's an illusion, made possible by physics, bending light waves, things that could be magic. I know about illusions but the kind that pay less to know about.

I convinced myself "hellos" were secrets and warmed myself on the promises I found in them. After all, it's cold this time of year and I'm illiterate, or an alchemist; I can make nothing out of nothing. It would the oldest trick in my book, if I could read it.

Meanwhile, hunger hurts (sing along) as my stomach feeds itself on the nothing I gave it. I'm finding the nots hard to digest and harder to untangle.

These days it's easier to blame a planet moving backward than admit I made a mistake.

- n

[drunkpoetrycircle]

A response to memories of those early drives

Oh Cassandra, that formal triplet Precise, concise, like an assassin's bullet A delicate triplicate from an eloquent spirit. Sent to my inbox on the sixth of November Persisting here, like a well loved ember. The anthem composed intoxicated Free from prose, uncomplicated

Keeps me company This, and whisky: How could I be lonely?

- Alvin

[drunkpoetrycircle]

Memories of early drives through washed up streets

Innocent days spent dreaming A charming man, pretending We were so young then, it seemed never ending

Visions of those silver girls Platinum hair with New York curls Church bells ringing through holy doors Sinful women praying on all fours Plague me and haunt me all night But manifested dreams do excite

- Cassandra

[drunkpoetrycircle]

The only time I have ever screamed FUCK was in a doctors office as they shoved a inch of plastic Into me Pain shooting down my thigh Apparently, I have a misshapen uterus Wow, My stepmother glares When I tell her, three glasses of wine and a bowl later (smoked from my childhood bathroom with the fan on) I never said that when I gave birth to either of my children I would never in front of a doctor (and I refused the drugs) I wake up from a nap and there’s three different people texting me three different things all about lululemon 

[drunkpoetrycircle]

“you’re beautiful,” you said, and the words had never sounded so ugly now i know that i am beautiful but i was not yours to touch

- k

[drunkpoetrycircle]

If you're not the kind of person Who spins an Oreo open And licks both halves You're not my kind of person - Julia

[drunkpoetrycircle]

Joan Didion talks to me

on the subway, on a plane

I don’t agree, sometimes I don’t even get it

but boy, that prose

Is DC my LA? 13th Street my Sunset Blvd?

Where the dee trip and the fav/unfavs mean something

no explanation needed

I don’t know about studios or motion pictures

but place matters — I know that for sure

Joan told it to me once, twice, over & over

Her place and my place

they’re not the same

but the tiles in DCA (not Dulles, my gawd!)

tell me I am home. - Jessica

[drunkpoetrycircle]

Civilization begins with distillation.

William Faulkner

[drunkpoetrycircle]

goodnight, all duty calls shovel in hand i dig through emails through mentions through photos digital dirt this pile is tall like, as tall as i am got me a nice six-foot hole say it looks pretty comfy down there is, is that a down comforter? stop that, eyes i rub my face and look around the rounded backs of desk chairs mark dozens of empty plots let me fill mine just for a moment no no i can't who will watch over the graveyard? duty calls good morning, all - t 

[drunkpoetrycircle]

when you first left, I would sleep facing the side you used to sleep on. curled up tight, only my hand outstretched on the bed as if it was your chest. I wanted to conjure you back, feel your warm skin, the rise and fall of your breath, your body solidly under my palm. eventually I returned to sleeping with my back to the vacancy in my bed. even in sleep I could not face the void you left. - girlenfuego

[drunkpoetrycircle]

Good-by, baby. The cognac is under the bed. Get well soon.

Ernest Hemmingway

[drunkpoetrycircle]

Don’t look at me. I am not for you. My clothes are not for you. My muscles are not for you. My curves are not for you. My body: not for you.

Look at me. Yes, you. Through your eyes, I see me. Through your hands, I feel me. Sexy. My clothes, my body — still for me. But a little for you, too.

Don’t look at me. You are not him. I don’t give my permission. Or consent. I am not for sale. Or for rent.

I am for me. And a little for him.

- L

[drunkpoetrycircle]

i'd spill the long story i dreamt of being us again, but then i thought about it. i'd snap you a joke whose arrival would would seem like a dream. but then i thought about it. i'd tell you i want to wake up clutching your torso, but then i thought about it. I toss, remembering lucid thoughts about us. - Anonymous

[drunkpoetrycircle]

We were at that moment of drunkenness that the two of us had come to call the Golden Moment, when everything made sense. We always tried to stretch out that moment, and then inevitably one of us would confess, 'I can't follow anymore. I think the Golden Moment has passed.'

Anne Rice

[drunkpoetrycircle]

goodnight, all duty calls shovel in hand i dig through emails through mentions through photos digital dirt this pile is tall like, as tall as i am got me a nice six-foot hole say it looks pretty comfy down there is, is that a down comforter? stop that, eyes i rub my face and look around the rounded backs of desk chairs mark dozens of empty plots let me fill mine just for a moment no no i can't who will watch over the graveyard? duty calls good morning, all

- t

[drunkpoetrycircle]

when you first left, I would sleep facing the side you used to sleep on. curled up tight, only my hand outstretched on the bed as if it was your chest. I wanted to conjure you back, feel your warm skin, the rise and fall of your breath, your body solidly under my palm. eventually I returned to sleeping with my back to the vacancy in my bed. even in sleep I could not face the void you left.

@girlenfuego